


Saturated Sunlight

by Inkfamy



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Friends to Lovers, M/M, Romance, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-09
Updated: 2016-04-09
Packaged: 2018-05-05 20:53:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5389919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inkfamy/pseuds/Inkfamy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sunstreaker never thought he'd have the patience for anyone except his brother - that is until a chatty Praxian comes into his life and suddenly all Sunstreaker wants to do is listen. Bluestreak thought he'd never find a mech who tolerated his talking, never mind one who actually enjoys it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by [this conversation](http://inkfamy.tumblr.com/post/134230368107/gallifreyanoncybertron-inkfamy) with [gallifreyanoncybertron](http://gallifreyanoncybertron.tumblr.com/) over on tumblr! Thank you!
> 
> Thank you also to [h-g-sol](http://h-g-sol.tumblr.com/), [iopele](http://iopele.tumblr.com/), [fhc-lynn](http://fhc-lynn.tumblr.com/) and [white-aster](http://white-aster.tumblr.com/) for helping to tidy things up!

Most people think Sunstreaker loves beautiful things, and they think that makes him shallow. On the first point they’re right; Sunstreaker has a deep, abiding love for anything beautiful. This does not make him shallow.

Beauty is more than a well-made frame or a sterling paint job. Of course, he isn’t going to pass up the opportunity to admire a handsome mech any more than the next ‘bot, but physical beauty is far from the only thing to stir his spark.

It’s beautiful when Sideswipe laughs after a prank, and the way he exaggeratedly sulks in the brig after the inevitable dressing down from Prowl. It’s beautiful when Jazz dances, all pointed pedes and curving limbs. It’s beautiful when Blaster plays music and the smile on his face as he loses himself, his optics dull and far-away as he composes mid-conversation. Red Alert’s ridiculous security systems are beautiful, because there’s beauty in something that’s so perfectly suited to its task. Even the stupid dirtball planet they’re stuck on can be beautiful sometimes; when the wind blows just right through plating to produce a perfect coolness on internal circuits and the sun dips down below the horizon and sets the sky on fire.

Everything about Bluestreak is beautiful, but it’s especially apparent when he talks.

Most people want something when they talk to Sunstreaker. Prowl wants something guarded, or for the twins to _please not distribute any more engex, he knows it’s them even if he has no proof_. Prime wants someone to stand on the front lines. Tracks wants to borrow some polish. Even Sideswipe wants a co-conspirator or someone to back him up when his latest victim comes looking for him. It’s not that he finds it annoying; he’s always open to a little coaxing and he doesn’t resent the requests but...

But Bluestreak just wants to talk about anything. About everything. He doesn’t want to flatter to try and get into a pretty mech’s berth, he doesn’t want any backup muscle, he doesn’t want anything protected or guarded or intimidated or watched. He doesn’t want to buy any high grade. Bluestreak just wants someone to listen to him.

Most mechs have a limit to how long they can oblige. They _like_ him, they really do. Bluestreak is sweet, innocent, friendly and easy to get along with. It’s just that he motors on at a million words a minute and there’s only so long the average ‘bot can stand to listen. Sometimes they try to join in and sometimes that works fine, but sometimes Bluestreak just needs to keep talking, an uninterrupted flow of words so that his mind doesn’t stray to darker places. Most mechs don’t quite understand that.

Ratchet and First Aid understand. Before the Ark left Cybertron, they were briefed on the special requirements of all the crew. They know how badly Bluestreak needs to talk and they try to listen. But Ratchet, well… he’s probably older than Cybertron itself and crankier than an overwound spring and you can see his tolerance eroding under the endless flood of words. First Aid is friendly and tries so hard, but after about a joor in the rec room he starts to shift and shuffle. Prowl understands, and seems to have the patience of a rock as he sits and listens, but the Third in Command rarely has any real downtime to sit and listen to a subordinate talk.

Sunstreaker has never been a talker. As far as he can, he likes to communicate through grunts and facial expressions and tiny changes in stance and the way his arms are folded. Anything over that he grudgingly allows in gruff, clipped sentences. He has always cultivated a careful distance from anyone but his brother; it’s not that he particularly dislikes others, it’s just that he doesn’t really have an interest in making close friends. They’ve never been assigned to one troop long enough for it to matter.

Sideswipe is an expert in Sunstreaker grunts and grimaces and seems to have no problem holding a full conversation with his brother. Everyone else doesn’t really bother. They sit with the twins because Sideswipe is somehow friends with the entire Ark within orns of leaving their home planet and everyone wants to join in the banter that always flows around the red warrior. The fact that Sideswipe brews the best unlicensed engex probably helps things along. Social as always, Sideswipe makes a special effort to integrate Bluestreak into their group from orn one.

-o0o-

To begin with Bluestreak is more than a little intimidated by Sunstreaker. They’re about the same height, but Sunstreaker has finger-thick plating that can put a stop to most ballistics and stands like a predator waiting to pounce. He should be heavy and slow but somehow hasn’t sacrificed more than a fraction of his agility to his retrofitted heavy plate. Something about the way he stands means he towers over most other mechs. Sideswipe has the same air about him; the twins fill any room they walk into just with their _presence_. It’s impossible to not notice them.

The first time Sideswipe calls him over to sit with the twins, nervousness sends Bluestreak’s vocaliser into overdrive. What is usually a fast stream of words becomes a torrent, half formed thoughts pouring forth before his processor really even catches what they are.

_“Oh hi Sunstreaker I’m Bluestreak I don’t think we’ve been introduced properly yet I mean obviously we know each other from the personnel files we had to read when we joined the crew but you know we haven’t actually spoken face-to-face yet wow I mean I’ve heard so much about you they say you and your brother are the top frontlines in the whole army and they tried to poach you for the Wreckers but you refused to leave the Prime’s team and wow I mean the Wreckers are such a prestigious group to work for although I mean they have a pretty high turnover hahaha I guess you wouldn’t want to work with them... I- uh- oh I’m so sorry I didn’t mean you’re scared or anything I’m sorry that’s not what I meant-”_

He cuts off, stammering apologies to try and ward off any offense as he tenses up. The big yellow warrior finally meets his optics, faceplates set in a scowl, and shifts the position of his folded arms.

Bluestreak resets his vocaliser a few times, frantically glancing to Sideswipe for help or some kind of cue. This is not the first time his motor mouth has got him into bother. Sideswipe gives him a grin that seems to split his face and barks a laugh, clapping his brother on the pauldron with a _clang_.

“Exactly!” he laughs and his enthusiasm makes Bluestreak hesitate again. Sunstreaker’s optics move to look at the assaulted plate and he slowly returns his gaze to his red twin. “The Wreckers’re a bunch of glory-hunters, just take on stupid suicide missions to try and get their names in the histories. More warriors on the frontlines like me ‘n’ Sunny and-”

Another scowl from his twin cuts into the conversation. “My name is Sunstreaker.”

Bluestreak stares; this is the first time he’s ever actually heard Sunstreaker say _actual words_.

“Got nothing to do with your name,” Sideswipe leans in close to his twin, wide grin teasing, “it’s because of your _sunny disposition_.”

He laughs at the dirty glower this earns him and turns back to Bluestreak.

“Anyway, we’re already famous,” the red mech stretches back in his seat – not bragging, just a statement of fact. “Don’t need to join a bunch of wannabes – we’re basically the Primal Vanguard, right?”

Bluestreak flicks his doorwings once in consideration, smiling uncertainly, but Sunstreaker’s scowl has returned to its normal disinterest and Sideswipe’s grin seems genuine. He relaxes.

-o0o-

A few decaorns pass, tension on board the Ark mounting with the knowledge that _Megatron himself_ is pursuing them. With both ships at the height of their capabilities, all that can be done is sit at their - top speed, mercifully out of range of the Decepticon ship’s weapons – and hope the enemy run out of fuel first.

Bluestreak begins to look forward to the orns when his off-shift time coincides with that of the twins. He’s given up sitting in a group without them, forcing nervous silence lest he garner irritated looks and interruptions. Mostly he sits alone in their absence, occasionally joined by Jazz or Prowl or First Aid or Ratchet or Bumblebee, but with everyone working shifts there are plenty of orns he is by himself.

This is one of those orns. He fidgets with his untouched energon cube, seated at a table secreted in the corner of the rec room, and stares out of the viewing screen at the stars. His own thoughts roil in his processor, frantically trying to fend of the darker things on the periphery of his consciousness. He had a nightmare again last recharge and it sits fresh in his memory banks.

He starts as a large servo pulls out one of the chairs and someone sits with a heavy thump. He should have detected them approaching but he’s too lost in his own helm. Relief floods as his optics focus on the bright yellow plating and familiar frown. He looks around but no matching red form is anywhere to be seen. At another table several of the twins’ usual crowd is gathered and he wonders why Sunstreaker didn’t sit with them.

“Hi Sunstreaker!” he chirrups, pleased to see the mech but confused by the absence of his twin. “How are you? How was your shift? Did you just get off? I’ve only been here about half a joor – I was on duty helping Ratchet sort things in the medbay but we got it finished pretty quick and he let me leave early. Where’s Sideswipe isn’t he usually with you? Not that it’s not nice to see just you but I mean I thought you both normally had the same shifts.”

Sunstreaker waits for him to finish, taking a long pull from his own energon cube. He grunts noncommittally when asked about his day, and then, “Punishment detail.”

Bluestreak’s optics widen and his door wings flare in surprise. “Punishment detail? What happened I mean why would he be on punishment detail I know Prowl is strict about being on time to shifts and everything but he’s not that bad – was Sideswipe late to a shift? How long is his detail I hope everything is okay and it doesn’t go on his permanent record-”

He stops suddenly as he realises Sunstreaker is smiling. _Smiling._ It’s little more than a tiny quirk to his dermas but the unfamiliar expression hits like a missile to the spark chamber.

“More surprising it’s taken this long.”

Before Bluestreak can ask what he means, Brawn’s voice sounds across the room, light and joking, “Need rescuing, Sunstreaker?”

The yellow mech’s almost-smile slips into a snarl and his helm whips round to fix Brawn with a glare. Yellow servos grip the table hard enough to dent the metal and he doesn’t stop glaring death until Brawn shuffles and mutters something that sounds a little bit like “sorry” and tries to shrink down into the group he sits with.

Bluestreak vents hard, trying to collect himself. Too much talking. He shrinks under the bright blue optics Sunstreaker turns back to him, avoiding looking into the handsome face. With a massive effort the servos release the innocent table and Sunstreaker assumes his standard lounging position, albeit a little forcefully.

“Aft.” The sullen grunt barely even registers to the audials.

Bluestreak fidgets with his cube again, forcing quiet. No one wants to listen to someone chatter on and on. Be quiet, be quiet, be –

A yellow finger taps in front of him. “What were you helping Ratchet with?”

Amazement stalls all negative thought; this is the single wordiest conversation Bluestreak has ever heard Sunstreaker take part in. And has he ever actually heard Sunstreaker ask a conversational question before?

“I, uh, I was helping to uh sort through – well Ratchet has all these wires for circuit repair but he hasn’t had a chance to sort everything into the medbay yet so he had me categorising all the wires by diameter and composition and I didn’t even know there were that many different wires inside a mech!” The words spill out unbidden in an automatic response to the question.

Sunstreaker’s tension after Brawn’s remark seems to have eased a little and Bluestreak feels himself relax too. Sunstreaker and Sideswipe have never shown any irritation at his excessive talking, he could almost consider them friends-

A judder shakes the ship. Sunstreaker’s brief lightness vanishes as their cubes slide from the table and smash on the floor and suddenly a frontline warrior is standing, weapons drawn and optics immediately mapping the room for threats. Bluestreak is up too, conscious reactions a far-off thing and pulling his rifle from subspace. The whole room is drawing weapons and what was a relaxed group is transformed into a hive of uneasy soldiers.

Prowl’s voice echoes from the ship’s announcement system.

_“We have hit an asteroid field – all hands brace, we’re going to blast our way through.”_

Sharing unhappy looks between each other, everyone moves to the walls, crunching through broken glass and spilled energon. Bluestreak is next to Sunstreaker and a yellow arm presses across his chestplate to steady him as the ship shakes with another impact. Breems pass like millennia and then Prowl’s voice once again sounds in their audials and this time it has less of the cool calmness normally associated with their Third.

_“All hands to battle stations – we are being boarded by Decepticons. **All hands to battle stations. The Ark has been breached.** ”_

Chaos reigns. Everyone obeys without question, without hesitation. The rec room empties as Autobots pour out to defend their ship.

Bluestreak can hardly target an enemy in the confines of the _Ark_ without risking hitting an ally. He stays close to Sunstreaker – despite snapped protests that he should get back and out of the main fighting – and together they try to make their way towards Sideswipe’s location.

Tiny melees break out, desperate scrabbles by the Decepticons to claw closer to the _Ark’s_ bridge and equally desperate scrabbles by the Autobots to hold them back. Together they work out a system; when they hear footsteps Bluestreak drops down and aims his rifle, while Sunstreaker waits for the enemy to turn a corner. Sometimes Bluestreak can drop the hostiles without any contact being made, more often they both have to fight servo-to-servo. A sniper is not much good in the twisting hallways of a space craft.

Half a joor seems like an eternity as they try to make their way through the _Ark’s_ halls. Brief, barked commands from their commanders snap occasionally over their comm lines but in the here and now guerrilla fighting reigns supreme. The ship is listing wildly and few times the unpredictable footing saves their lives, almost costs them just as often.

Sunstreaker is a terrifying pitspawn as he tears through hostile Decepticons. He kills with bare servos as much as with weapons and the bright pink gore of processed energon splatters his yellow frame in a garish colour clash of violence, faceplates set in a brutal snarl. Several times their foes see who is coming towards them and just plain run away – and Bluestreak’s plasma bullets catch them in the back. No time for mercy when the alternative is living Decepticons running unchecked through their ship.

They sustain plenty of their own injuries; one of Bluestreak’s door wings hangs painfully from its single remaining hinge, dented servo marks patterning the metal. Sunstreaker sports charred and scratched plating, the glass cover of one optic shattered from a punch and several of the smaller plates in his face are so dented they don’t move properly. They force themselves on.

Until an unexpected order clips across their comms.

 _“All hands, brace for impact,”_ Prowl’s voice is overtly calm, but desperation plays an unfamiliar tune beneath his words.

The ship goes into freefall.

Bluestreak smashes into a wall that has suddenly become the floor, damaged doorwing crumpling under the weight of his body. He shouts at the pain and tries to move but the ship is shaking and spinning like an earthquake. Another jolt sends him sliding towards what was once a turn in the corridor but is now a yawning pit. Scrabbling, he tries to grab something – anything to stop him falling.

A yellow servo finds his, larger and thicker fingers curling around his wrist. Sunstreaker grips and hauls and Bluestreak is heaved away from the brink. The grip on his wrist becomes an arm around his waist and Sunsteaker presses both of them down, denta gritted in a silent snarl as his other servo grips tight into the ship’s metal.

The ship impacts. Stasis is instant.

Four million years drift by.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Feedback is more than appreciated and I hope you enjoyed! Chapter 2 to come shortly.
> 
> I post early updates over on tumblr so follow me there for first-look updates!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to teztime for betaing for me, and sorry to everyone who waited so long for this chapter!

The dead _nothingness_ of stasis tears away in one stinging, burning flood of overwhelming sensation.

Battle routines boot first, restoring systems to the last logged state. Data screams through Sunstreaker’s processor: detected energy signatures, noise, tactile information and damage reports.

It takes him two nanokliks to come fully online. Unauthorised barely-legal modifications are rarely pleasant, but Sunstreaker has always figured it’s better to be alive and uncomfortable than dead. So far he's been right.

He instantly knows three things: he is lying down, in a compromised position; his body is pressed over an unconscious frame, marked as an ally in his logs; someone is leaning over him.

Systems dictate only two immediate needs – protect the unconscious ally and kill the unknown threat.

Sunstreaker surges up, optics blazing online, and catches the wrist of the mech reaching for him. His other hand locks against the aggressor’s shoulder mounting, ready to pull the limb from its bearings.  A shouted curse gives him pause as his interpersonal systems receive a barrage of medic identifiers and stand-down commands.

As he begins to process the red cross of a medic half hidden beneath his splayed fingers, his battle readiness trickles away to nothing. Finally his optics focus on the face of the Autobot Chief Medical Officer.

_Slag._

“Get the frag off me, you walking spare-part store!” Ratchet snaps, yanking his wrist from a suddenly slack grip. He gives the yellow frontliner a sharp shove in the chest. “And don’t think I won’t haul you down to my office for a _full_ check on those unsanctioned boot mods if you touch me again.”

With a grimace Sunstreaker eases back, tuning out the tongue-lashing as he sends an enquiring ping, packaged with location data, to his twin. Still twitchy, he stays tensed and alert, battle protocols still streaming through his helm as he scans their immediate area for any real threats. He assumes, though, the situation is in hand if Ratchet is alone and prowling the ship looking for casualties rather than attending wounded in the medibay.

The sharp pain of a wrench ramming into the side of his knee, tempers his relief at an affirmative ping back from Sideswipe. Looking down at the medic’s crouched white form with more than a small amount of irritation, Sunstreaker defiantly meets the CMO's deadpan gaze. Ratchet sighs and says in a forcibly calm voice, "I need you to stop crouching over Bluestreak like a turbofox on a kill so that I can see him properly."

Sunstreaker jerks back, suddenly all too aware that the prone grey form at his feet isn't groaning and getting up, isn't even booting. He stares in shock, assessing the damage on the Praxian frame: one door hanging by a single hinge and the oddly bright colour of dried energon standing out starkly against dark plate, but nothing bad enough to offline a mech.

Surely?

Ratchet must read his face like a book, because he pushes more gently at the previously abused knee and turns his attention to Bluestreak’s prone frame. "He'll be fine. I just have to dampen his neural net or he'll wake up screaming." A rather more insistent shove has the yellow warrior taking several steps back to clear room. "Some mechs have the good sense not to get some backalley hack to install illegal boot enhancers! Your processor is probably crawling with malware - and who is it that has to comb through lines of code when your port covers start popping open every ten seconds?" 

Sunstreaker turns his audio input down, tuning out the now quiet murmur of Ratchet's ranting; there are several rumours among the Autobot ranks that their CMO actually works better while cursing out a handy soldier or two.

The sound of footsteps pounding towards them draws his optics away from the sight of Ratchet prying open a port in the middle of Bluestreak's back at the sound. Taking up a guard position in front of Ratchet and Bluestreak, Sunstreaker stares in the direction of the sound, but his brother's spark signature registers even before he catches a glimpse of red plate.

A niggling question pushes itself to the forefront of his attention and he half turns, looking back across his shoulder pauldron at the working medic and dialling his audials back up.

"We crashed?"

Ratchet doesn't look up from his work as his fingers dart around the remaining hinge of Bluestreak's door.It looks like he's just taking the whole door off.

"The Ark crash landed..." Ratchet speaks slowly as he wriggled the buckled door free from its mounting, his attention on the task at hand, "and the whole ship was stasis locked for... a while."

-o0o-

 

“A while” turns out to be forty-eight thousand vorns: four million of this planet’s solar-cycles, according to Perceptor. Sunstreaker hadn't asked, but he'd been enthusiastically informed anyway. 

A pit-damned organic planet, and they’re stuck on it. No contact with Cybertron or the rest of the Autobot army - if either even exist after almost fifty thousand vorns. The organics aren’t even regular sized organics; these ones are small and squishy and everywhere. As if the organics weren’t bad enough, Megatron and his troop of Decepticons are stranded on the same planet and determined to finish what they'd started. The low energon rations mandated by the Prime’s refusal to let them mine the planet is the final twist in the wound.

And Prowl insists on running training exercises at least once a decaorn.

This is one of his apparent favourites, christened "King of the Castle" by Jazz after some inane organic youngling game. The fact it's one of Prowl's favourites means it's excruciatingly unpleasant for everyone else involved.

King of the Castle hinges on the idea that a good sniper is vitally important in remedying their guerrilla stalemate. Prowl believes Bluestreak is an asset they cannot afford to lose, and everyone on base should know how to support him in the field. 

Gameplay is simple; Bluestreak is posted up somewhere nice and high and given as many rifle taser rounds as can be stuffed into subspace. The rounds release tiny barbed claws that hook onto armour and crackle circuit-frying pain at the site of injury, making them a good non-lethal simulation of plasma fire. One lucky Autobot gets to accompany the sniper and is tasked with calling out targeting information and watching Bluestreak’s back.

Everyone else has to try and get close enough to capture them 

Today Sunstreaker is Bluestreak’s spotter, which makes the game even more unpleasant than usual because anyone who _does_ manage to weave their way through the punishingly accurate sniper fire and climb up to their position then has to go hand-to-hand with the yellow warrior. The pan to the proverbial fire, though, was that any time Prowl felt the assault team weren’t playing enthusiastically enough he had a nasty habit of handing out team-wide punishment detail.

There are more than a few murmurs about just handing themselves over to the Decepticons and begging Megatron for a merciful death, and they’re only mostly joking.

Everyone is familiar with the imaginary three-hundred-and-sixty degree circle used in the exercise. It’s standard combat practice used by frontliners and commanders alike; the humans even have a version of it that uses a timepiece. Any Cybertronian can apply the concept with pinpoint accuracy; what’s hard is applying it with pinpoint accuracy for _someone else._

During King of the Castle Bluestreak is under orders to fire _wherever_ his spotter tells him to, immediately and without question, meaning a miscalculation on the spotter's part can result in a wildly inaccurate shot. It's irritatingly pedantic on Prowl's part, but if there are two words to describe the Autobot Third then those words are _definitely_ "irritatingly pedantic", although they are probably not the first ones that spring to the mind of the average soldier.

Scowling in concentration, Sunstreaker watches the desert plains for signs of movement. They've been sitting in the sun long enough that the heat is starting to register on his sensors, and hot air shimmers as it rises over Bluestreak's plate. Sand blows on the soft breeze and he can feel the tiny particles beginning to work their way into his joints. He scowls again.

Sunstreaker sits with his back propped against a stone jutting from their little hill; across from him, Bluestreak lies in perfect stillness. His optics are bright as he watches over the monotonous sand and he clasps his rifle tightly in his hands.

It's eerie how quiet and still Bluestreak is in the field: a stark contrast to the vibrant and talkative mech Sunstreaker has grown used to, grown to like. His dark plate seems to sink into their surroundings despite the bright sun, and the lack of chatter on the weather or rocks or tufts of grass around them is disconcerting.

The first time Sunstreaker saw the sniper in action was on a falling ship with Decepticons swarming them on every side; the change had struck him but he had been too preoccupied to fully appreciate it.

But he appreciates it now. Sunstreaker recognises perfection when he sees it. Slowly his surprise at the strut-deep stillness falls away beneath the weight of admiration.

Bluestreak is just as deadly as Sunstreaker, but in all the ways Sunstreaker is not; silent, distant, calm and collected and in control. Every movement the sniper makes is calculated and precise, nothing like the berserker rage the yellow frontliner falls into on the battlefield. Sunstreaker becomes a screaming, destructive demon in combat, but Bluestreak becomes a silent, vengeful god.

Sunstreaker had torn the Decepticon limb from limb who had dared to lay hands on something so beautiful.

Bluestreak shifts and presses his optic to the scope of his rifle, jarring Sunstreaker from his reverie.

"Bumblebee on my three-five," Bluestreak warns. Their only communication the whole exercise has been these clipped snippets of information.

Well Sunstreaker has never been overly fond of banter while on missions.

"Do you have a clear shot?"

A nanoklik passes and then, "No."

He squints in the direction indicated as Bluestreak lines up. Sunstreaker can just pick out a bright yellow shape against the dull yellow of the plains. He raises a pair of binoculars to his optics and sees, yes, the little yellow minibot attempting to sneak up on their position.

 _Attempting_ is a too-accurate description. For some reason one of the best scouts on their team is completely failing at concealment.

Frowning, Sunstreaker lowers the binoculars. He stares out at the sand and grass. Jazz has command of the attacking forces today and that means instead of Bluestreak easily picking off hostiles and winning the day, the opposing team will probably have a rare victory and someone is about to magically appear behind him and hold a knife to his throat.

But _Sunstreaker_ has command of Bluestreak.

That thought sticks in his processor for the rest of the exercise, his optics straying to the dark doors hiked high as Bluestreak sends round after round into their approaching enemies with an accuracy that’s painful to witness.

They lose when Jazz and Mirage appear behind them and level guns at both their heads.

-o0o-

As well as scheduled team-training exercise the whole base is given a strict rota of personal training time as well. Prowl rules over their military operation with an iron fist and any slacking when it comes to battle readiness is liable to earn a sharp reprimand about the importance of being fit to hold the lines with their fellow Autobots and, if the commander is feeling particularly waspish, a spot on punishment detail.

The training hangar is second only to the rec room as a favourite social spot, ordered combat training or not. Off-duty Autobots routinely wander into the hangar, finding a seat on one of the benches supplied along the walls to chat, watch the on-shift mechs spar or - if they’re feeling particularly productive that day - do a little extra training of their own.

Idling along the edge of the area reserved for sparring, Bluestreak should be seeking out Bumblebee, his scheduled sparring partner, but instead the flash of bright paint interrupts his cheery wave to the small scount and he finds himself stopping to watch Sunstreaker and Ironhide squaring off.

No stranger to battle, he is used to watching frontliners clash through the scope of his rifle and hardly inexperienced in hand-to-hand combat himself. Regardless, watching one of the most experienced troop commanders in the Autobot army face off against one of their most notorious fighter is a whole different level of awe-striking.

Ironhide was well known as a respected military officer before the war even started, veteran of countless battles before Megatron even began riling up rebellion. On the other hand Sunstreaker and his twin have no military background, but were superstars in their own right among gladiatorial circles; hard won champions of the underground bloodsport that was mech-on-mech combat. Military programmed and trained mechs may have an edge when it comes to tactics and working as a unit, but the Twins have raw, brutal survival instinct in their corner.

Glancing quickly around, Bluestreak notes that he’s not the only one neglecting his training. Far off on the other side of the hangar, Smokescreen looks suspiciously like a mech accepting bets from the Bots clustered around.

Something in Sunstreaker changes when he fights. The aloof mask he so often wears falls away to reveal something feral and visceral beneath, striking in its honesty. Even in a friendly practice bout against an ally his beautiful faceplates are set in an ugly snarl as red and yellow circle, slow and wary, each taking their measure of the other.

Bluestreak can’t take his optics off the yellow frame slinking close to the ground, centre of gravity low. Sunstreaker is a hulking figure, his bright plate faulting any attempt at camouflage and screaming a challenge for anyone to face him. On the battlefield someone so obvious would be an instant target and sniper’s targeting software falls for the enticement, automatically tracking every shift of plate as the warrior moves. Warbuild modifications on top of gladiator’s plating means there are few gaps and even fewer points of exposed vitals, but Bluestreak’s optics can’t help but try to seek them out.

As Sunstreaker steps forward there’s a momentary flex of plate that opens a tiny seam on the outside of one knee. The twist of his black helm as he tracks a movement from Ironhide exposes the cabling of his neck. When he braces down the grapple, one leg pushed back, he opens himself to a shot at the seams of his groin.

His movements though are so fluid and quick that the tiny vulnerabilities are gone as soon as they register to Bluestreak’s target lock.

Completely absorbed by the red and yellow tangle, optics targeting vulnerable spots at a mile a minute, Bluestreak fails to notice the breakout of a sudden bustle of movement as everyone immediately tries to look like mechs extremely busy in their appointed tasks and absolutely not like people who had been standing around gawping until just a few nanokliks ago, regardless of the fact that half of them aren’t even on shift right now. Somewhere a voice registers, loudly and pointedly discussing the pros and cons of plasma rounds versus pellet shots 

Still so deeply absorbed in the sparring match before him, Bluestreak’s spark almost stops and his engine actually stalls when a hand claps down hard on his shoulder. With a startled yelp he jerks and turns so fast one of his doors smacks his assailant across the face.

Cool blue optics meet his and Prowl inclines his head in greeting, apparently unfazed by the dark scrapes of paint that trace across his cheek. Something in Bluestreak’s chest plummets into his feet and tries to escape into the floor.

He squirms under that icy gaze, optics flicking guiltily to where Bumblebee stands at the opposite side of the arena, the little yellow scout staring over at the two Praxians with a look of abject horror on his faceplates. Despite being the same height, Bluestreak feels tiny under the Third in Command’s scrutiny.

Prowl does not miss the sniper’s flicker of attention. His helm turns slowly, pinning Bumblebee with a stare like a javelin. A single crook of one finger brings the scout hurrying to their side.

“Is there a problem with your sparring schedule?” Prowl asks lightly, as if asking about the weather or their opinions of the interior décor.

Feeling like two recruits at their first dressing-down, Bumblebee and Bluestreak exchange one petrified look and in their faces are a thousand excuses. Simultaneously they frantically shake their heads and Prowl’s optics slide from them to the sparring match still being fought, both combatants happily unaware of the world outside of their bout. His gaze lingers for a moment and then snaps back to his subordinates, fast enough to make them both start.

“It is always good to take note of melee fighters’ techniques,” the black and white Praxian concedes gracefully, and Bluestreak and Bumblebee sag like marionettes whose strings have gone slack.

Hope blooms in Bluestreak’s spark and he gabbles, seizing onto the graciously offered lifeline, “Yessir you see we saw-“

He is cut off again as Prowl gives him a pointed look and returns his attention to the wrestling match. Ironhide manages to pin Sunstreaker by the throat, one giant black hand wrapped around neck cabling in a suffocating grip, but with an impossibly fluid twist the yellow warrior kicks up, catching his commander in the side and sending him crashing to the floor. The sandy ground vibrates with the impact.

“We cannot simply rely on theory, however….” Prowl murmurs, half to himself as he begins to stroll towards the grappling duo.

Bluestreak’s fragile and fluttering hope shatters as he follows the path of the black and white commander, but that finger curls again and draws both Bumblebee and he forward like leashed pets in his wake.

As he walks Prowl calls softly to the red and yellow mechs, his quiet tones somehow cutting through the chatter of bystanders and the clang of metal on metal. Two pairs of battle-bright optics turn to him and for a moment the tactician looks like a minibot facing down a pair of rabid cyberwolves.

The moment passes, Bluestreak’s fuel pump hammering at almost top speed, and sanity seems to dawn in the warriors’ optics. Sunstreaker grudgingly stops trying to break the struts in his commanding officer’s arm and Ironhide gives up trying to peel off his subordinate’s plating.

Prowl doesn’t seem to notice, or care, about the burning intensity of the optics focussed on him. He gestures offhandedly to the sniper and scout at his back and addresses Ironhide pleasantly, as if asking about recreational plans for the evening,. “Bluestreak and Bumblebee are particularly interested in studying melee fighting today.”

Ironhide folds his arms and meets the Prowl’s cool gaze. There is a sense of unspoken agreement between the two officers that has cold dread curling though Bluestreak’s frame. Two pairs of commanding optics turn to their disobedient subordinates.

“I do always say,” Ironhide drawls in his lazy dialect, casting a critical look over the two mechs trying to cringe down behind Prowl’s doors, “that we are in dire need’a more trainin’ between frontline fighters and the rest a’ the team.”

Training between frontliners and everyone else had been vehemently voted against by “everyone else” after it had been discovered that Sunstreaker and Sideswipe didn’t have much of an inclination to differentiate between a friendly spar and actual warfare. The two are no longer even allowed to wrestle each other without supervision and inhibitor claws after Ratchet had reported the sheer amount of resources it was costing him each time they came in for repairs.

Prowl’s hand swings back, catching an unsuspecting Bumblebee by the shoulder and drawing the scout stumbling forward. The little mech’s wheel’s scrape furrows in the sand as his breaks automatically lock in response to the movement but Prowl is much stronger than he looks and Bumblebee almost half his size.

“A lesson in the practical applications of their _closely monitored_ observations is an excellent idea,” Prowl nods as he transfers the prisoner to Ironhide’s much larger hands, no trace of humour in his tone. “I am sure Bumblebee will benefit hugely from a one-on-one training session with an experienced fighter.”

Ironhide’s grin to Prowl borders on too enthusiastic and with a hand clamped on a tiny yellow shoulder, he leads a frantically gabbling Bumblebee away. The jovial drawl explaining the aspects of various arm locks fades and Bluestreak yelps as a firm hand catches his arm and pulls him forward.

He looks away from his friend and into the brilliant blue optics and unreadable expression of Sunstreaker. Though the yellow warrior i only a few feet taller than himself, Bluestreak feels trapped between two giants, the white hand on his arm like an inhibitor claw and Prowl’s presence looming at his back.

“I leave Bluestreak to your tender care,” Prowl says flatly and Sunstreaker’s optics flicker briefly to the commander. His mouth tightens a fraction and he gives a sharp, small nod.

The gentle crunch of receding footsteps sounds softly at Bluestreak’s back and he is left looking into the displeased faceplates of Sunstreaker. Somewhere on the other side of the arena Bumblebee hits the floor with a plate-rattling _clang_ , but Bluestreak is too busy stuffing panic down to the bottom of his fuel tanks to look.

He and Sunstreaker are friends, but that generally means very little in the field; the time Sunstreaker and Sideswipe had gone for a friendly practice session and ended up in Ratchet’s care for limb reattachments was an example that was pushing its way to the forefront of his mind

The big yellow warrior is still watching him with considering optics, but when Bluestreak huffs a hot ex-vent Sunstreaker takes a few steps back, clearing several lengths between them. With a fluidity that belies his heavy plate, he drops into a ready stance and once again sniper’s optics can’t help but pick out the places where armour moves apart slightly to allow for the shift in movement. Once again the vulnerabilities are tiny: Sunstreaker is obviously well aware of the week points in his frame and compensates with his body positioning and arms.

The handsome helm tilts, light flashing off a large fin, and a flicker of confusion passes over perfectly sculpted faceplates.

“Are you ready?” Sunstreaker asks with a raised optic ridge.

Realising he is staring Bluestreak hurriedly drops into his own ready position, feet spread and arms up. His targeting software pounds away in his helm, feeding angles and distances and calculations readings into his processor fast enough to make his vision spin.

It’s hard not to be intimidated. Every inch of Sunstreaker’s demeanour screams predator. His expression, once again blank but optics tracking each tiny movement of Bluestreak’s frame, does nothing to soothe the sniper’s nerves.

Before he can speculate further, though, Sunstreaker is moving. Two long, fast strides bring him into Bluestreak’s range and a perfectly polished leg swings out and around to ram into the back of his knee.

Those sky blue optics brighten in surprise when Bluestreak jumps straight up and over the singing leg but Sunstreaker isn’t thrown for long. A yellow hand catches his shoulder as he lands and throws him off balance, and as he stumbles that leg swings and succeeds in slamming into him this time and sending him crashing to the floor.

Rather than bearing down on him, Sunstreaker steps back and resumes his stance again.

Fully prepared to take a pummelling, Bluestreak pushes up to his feet again and rotates his shoulders, eyeing his partner with uncertainty. Sunstreaker waits patiently for hm to finish shuffling and fluttering his doors before casting a critical eye over Bluestreak’s stance.

Bumblebee hits the sand again.

“Are you ready?” is repeated in that quiet tone and Bluestreak nods.

Rather than close the distance and attack again though, Sunstreaker shakes his helm and points to the sniper’s back foot. A sharp jerk of the finger has Bluestreak making a minor adjustment to the offending foot and before he has time to look up Sunstreaker is moving again.

A yellow flicker on his peripheral vision is Bluestreak’s only warning and his helm snaps up. Frantically he dodges, dropping one shoulder and taking scrambling steps back to avoid a snatching hand, the arm extending past him seemingly in slow motion. His targeting software pings and he follows the command, thrusting his fingers into a tiny gap between plates in the inner elbow. He jerks his fingers in a cruel twist.

Sunstreaker grunts at the tweaked cables and bears his denta but yanks his arm away, Bluestreak’s fingers scraping chips from perfect plate in the process. His hand closes around Bluestreak’s still-extended wrist and with a wrench the sniper is pulled forward, their chestplates clanging together. They’re almost optic level with one another, Bluestreak’s arm twisted in a strut-wrenchingly painful position that has him gritting his own denta in an imitation of Sunstreaker’s own grimace.

With an almost apologetic turn of his lips, Sunstreaker yanks, pushing forward at the same time, and with a yelp of pain Bluestreak crashes to the floor again.

Lights and sounds drift in and out of focus, nothing quite making sense. Restarting his optics to clear the static, Bluestreak stares up at the bright lights set into the hangar’s ceiling with a ringing buzz in his audials and pain twinging down his arm and straight into his fingers. He allows himself a small groan 

Vibrant yellow appears in his hazy field of vision, and a hand extends downward to offer assistance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sunstreaker offering Blue a hand up is basically a marriage proposal, right?


End file.
